Bruised Bedsheets & Permanent Ink
by holographic
Summary: You've known for a long, long time that the day will come when one of you just crosses some sort of invisible line and everything will break. One day, she will either destroy you, or you will destroy her, and it is as simple as that. // RyoheiOC.


**Bruised Bedsheets & Permanent Ink**

**.  
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It almost looks like her shoulders are shaking, but you know better. You've always known better than people have given you credit for. She looks up at you with burning eyes and you tell yourself that you knew she wasn't crying.

(You don't admit that somewhere in you, you were scared she was, for just a split second. But worrying too much is extremely pointless. You've always known that. )

You grin hugely and punch the air, in a sad attempt at changing the mood, because you're not really sure how these things are supposed to work, and for a second it looks like she might forgive you for being an idiot, before she suddenly cites extreme irreconcilable differences and files for divorce.

Her eyes are still burning, and you know it's better not to argue. But you shout something that sounded like a 'why?' you thought, but she doesn't give an answer. She turns on her heel instead, and runs from you.

You try to chase after her, but something in you is also shouting at you not to be an idiot and drag a stupid fight out any longer. You two have always been like this, you know that, fighting and all, but this is your first break up (your first relationship), and you don't know what you're really supposed to do.

You remember how she divorced you just two seconds ago, and frown, turning to run the other way. A run is what you need, it usually is. You push yourself 'to the extreme' and you start to wonder what that even means if you just let her get away.

(You know you two aren't married, but your little sister keeps telling you that you might as well be. You think she may have a point, and start to feel bad. )

The day comes after sleep and you're out jogging again, thinking. Time passes and you're back home, before you know it, it's time for school. You're hoping you'll see her here, but in the morning, she's surrounded by friends of hers, and you know how extremely vicious girls can be, so you instead divert your attention to your shrimpy friend, who was trying to slip past you.

You notice her look your way and your eyes meet for a second as you hold Shrimp in a half-nelson. Her eyes go frozen water and you try to smile but can't. Shrimp pushes out of your grasp and falls onto his butt on the ground, and you think it's just as well.

(You might have choked him on accident, and Octopus-head would have _killed_ you for that.)

. . .

You're older now, and you've been living together for the past year. You're having another pointless fight, and this time you're both shouting things that you don't mean, and never planned on saying in the first place. She screams one last thing, and when she turns to slam the door and leaves you to sink onto a chair and rub your face, you wonder how you ever got this bad.

You two don't talk for weeks, and even when you do see her, ponytail swishing through the hallways of the house, you can't talk to her. It takes a long time, and finally you get up the nerve (it's still new to you, after all these years, being nervous) to talk to her again. You find her and try to talk with her, try to joke about it, but know your humor's all wrong, extremely wrong, because she looks hurt and angry again, and you didn't want this. She tries to leave and you tell her it was just a joke. She snarls that your humor sucks and you're stung again, but you don't want to fight anymore. You've always hated storms, literal or metaphorical, and this was like a hurricane-tornado-hailstorm-endofthefuckingworld storm.

You want to apologize, because somehow, all the extremely stupid fights you've ever gotten into with her are _your fault_; that's what you've always said, at least.

She tries to get past you and you gently grab her arms, tell her you're sorry, and you don't want this anymore. She's struggling until she's hitting you, punching your chest, and you don't do anything but pull her into your arms until the abuse stops and the tears begin.

You hold her tighter, waiting through the sobs as she breaks down for the first time you've seen in years, and she clutches you like you're the only thing that's ever really existed, and you remember, in that moment, when and why you fell in love with her in the first place.

(You knew better than anyone how heartbreakingly beautiful she was when she was vulnerable.)

. . .

Never again, you tell yourself, but you know it's a lie; that makes you a dirty liar. You've always tried to play the nice guy, but sometimes you can't help it when you snap and hurt her.

Last time, you said it would be the _last time_, but you just keep doing it over and over, don't you? She's gotten used to the way you look at her and break down, horrified at what you've done to her. She's accustomed to your babbling and your apologizing, and ignores the bruises from when you two fight with each other and it gets out of hand.

She will hug you like she always does, hold you like you hold her, until you're done with everything you need to say, and you've always known that when you look up, she will be gentle with you and she will wipe away the tears you didn't know filled the corners of your eyes. She will tell you there is no need to apologize, but you know it's a lie.

(You're a pair of liars, which makes you perfect for each other.)

She sleeps on the other side of the bed when you go to sleep that night. You feel lonely and wish you could move closer to her to warm up, but somehow, even someone as stupid as you knows it's wrong. You stay on your side and fall asleep looking at her back, her ink hair spilling over the sheets and tainting the bed just like she's painted herself as a permanent stain on your life (and just like you've bruised each other).

You realize her hair reminds you of Sharpie ink, with how it glows blue and purple when it's wet, and you wonder why you're getting all romantic on yourself. You think, _shit, I'm getting poetic_, and somehow you don't care much anymore, although you make a note to do something with the guys tomorrow in order to reclaim your manliness.

. . .

While you're with your friends at the bar after your jobs, you're laughing and talking about chicks, work, and anything else that comes to mind over a few beers. As you're laughing, you can remember when all this was a joke – life, love, work, all of it – back when you used to laugh at it.

You wonder when it was exactly that she had managed to reel you in. When _life_ had managed to reel you in.

You're talking to your friend, black haired and brown eyed with a scar on his chin, and he might be one of the only ones who can really understand it.

But instead of understanding, he says, _it's hard for me to really get, you know?_

And all you can say is, _yeah, I know,_ because you knew before bringing her up that he's had a broken heart for five years (because he won't move on from this one little blonde woman), and won't look at anyone but her.

But he looks at you and smiles ruefully, tells you, _you sound like you're in a real bad spot, though. I'm sorry, man._

You tell him, _it's alright. We'll work through it. We always do._

He doesn't mention how you sound uncertain, but you know he can hear it, because you can, too.

It hangs unspoken in the air: _you can't just keep forgiving forever._

. . .

You've known for a long, long time that the day will come when one of you just crosses some sort of invisible line and everything will break. One day, she will either destroy you, or you will destroy her, and it is as simple as that. It's like your happily ever after: _the prince and the princess struck fatal blows to each other in unison. Both fell as one and bled to death, moving on together._

It was as happy as your lives would allow.

(You said this, but, honestly, you were an optimist. It was extremely hard for you to swallow, but it was a cold reality. )

. . .

When you two were still in high school, you were the over-enthusiastic, loud and fairly stupid captain of the boxing club. She was the head cheerleader, a dancer and a gymnast (all things that you supposed, in retrospect, had to do with cheerleading), and your paths never really crossed until your junior year, her sophomore, and then you both met through Shrimpy, of all people.

The instant your eyes met, there was a connection, something you both mistook for hate.

She frowned and you took a deep breath through your nose, and Shrimpy looked back and forth between you both, and you could tell he was thinking whether or not he should run away.

You held out your hand to shake, say your name, and she looks at your hand for a long time before taking it gingerly and looking up at you with the same cool eyes you've gotten used to over the years.

_Mayu,_ she says. _It's nice to meet you._

You noticed you were memorizing her name and it felt odd to you. She had straight, ink black hair, shiny and flowing, and thick lashes with eyes the color you think you'd see if purple irises and forget-me-nots got together and had a love child, a dark indigo-purple-blue-allsmashedtogether color that almost shimmered.

You thought it looked weird and kind of unnatural and decided you didn't like her eyes. You didn't like her skin either, pale and ice looking, but at the same time, you couldn't deny it fit her. An ice queen. You looked up from your hands as they dropped each other, glanced back at her and wondered what she was thinking.

(You didn't know she thought your eyes were weird, too: light, light gray and shining like the platinum band her mother wears on a chain around her neck that doesn't actually mean anything. Her parents had said 'till death do us part', but her father was always working, and her mother brought home a new man every week; told Mayu not to tell.

She decided she didn't like your eyes, either. )

. . .

When you two kissed for the first time, it was like being bitten by a rattlesnake. You decided from the almost accidental touch that you liked the taste of poison, and became addicted to her.

She tasted like something cool and gently flavored, almost like something mint and lavender that numbed your lips and splashed over your insides to cool all of you, something you couldn't get enough of. There wasn't any curing you, either, because there were no Mayu Patches™ to magically help you get over the fixation.

You looked at each other, high school aged and awkward, and you heard her mutter a distinct 'shit' after that kiss, watched as she ground her teeth and turned away, embarrassed and confused. You were just in high school then, though, and you didn't know any better when you let her walk away and assumed that it wouldn't happen again.

But after that, you two went out on your first date, tentatively. You were still acting like nothing had happened, and went to the movies. She was still wrapping you around her finger, and you hadn't noticed, then, and instead fell into her willingly, faster than she had been expecting, and you actually got to see a glimpse of the real her before she was ready for you.

(You can remember it even know, that wrecked and sobbing girl on the inside, the one who actually fell in love with you.)

Darkness proved the cover for your next next lie. It was something you hadn't been expecting, when she turned to you and mumbled something about the movie, you watched the pink of her lips in the shifting, flickering movie light and suddenly leaned in, pressing a chaste kiss on them, and she stopped talking, looked at you for a long time.

She pushed away, grumbling something about idiots and how they should just eat their popcorn, but you caught the same pink of her lips painting over her cheek bones like flower petals falling off the trees in spring. You smiled and got the courage to put an arm around her. She glanced at you again, but didn't do anything in the end besides cross her arms and turn back to the movie.

. . .

You were twenty-three and stumbling down the streets of the Italian town you worked in, with an arm around your drinking buddy, as you both walked (or, a drunken semblance of walking) down the road, singing loudly to each other, something neither of you even understood. You both laughed, and you remembered distantly, that she was probably waiting up for you at home, irritated because you weren't home in time for dinner.

The town was spinning that night. The stars did ballet and everything sang an opera that made no sense, and the two of you continued the stagger down the road, laughing and talking to each other, singing and shouting, until something in the air turned thick and dangerous, much more loaded than the air between two friends should have been.

You looked over at him and when your eyes met his, mocha and chocolate-melted-on-fingertips, it exploded and turned into action before you really knew what was happening. He moved forward, and suddenly his lips crashed onto yours, and it was a battle. You stumbled into a wall, your back hitting the bricks, and he was holding you by your collar. It was violent and violating, but you were responding, grabbed his jacket and pulled him forward more. You didn't even think about how you were making out with your best friend in an alley way, a best friend who was not gay.

(Not that _you _were gay, either. At least, you didn't think you were.)

The two of you went on until you had to push him away, your lip and his tongue bleeding. Both of you were coughing, gasping and choking and you were leaning on the wall. He stumbled back into one of the many trashcans in the alleyway, splashed in a puddle with his dress shoes, and you two looked at each other in stunned silence.

"Shit," You whimpered, "Shit, shit, shit."

Without waiting for him to say anything, you ran out the alley blindly, not sure exactly where you were going, but you knew that, somehow, you had to get home and apologize to her, even though she had no clue what had just happened.

. . .

Back when the two of you were just starting, you would break up and get back together every few months. You two had stopped in more recent years, finally admitting, grudgingly, that you would probably only ever be suited to each other. Things continued in a pattern of fighting, hitting each other, kissing and making up, and you had begun to accept that was how things would go for the rest of your lives.

Then you married her, and things settled down for a little while. Everything was blissful, and you loved her more than you ever had. You talked excitedly at night as you held her about how much you wanted a child, and she looked amusedly up at you, saying, "Isn't the mother supposed to be the one who wants the children?"

You grinned and kissed her forehead, snuggling her closer and told her, "Well, I can be like Mr. Mom, can't I? It'll be another adventure, Mayu."

You wished you could go back to the days where everything meant _something_, and you two were overflowing with some spring of love that made others jealous.

As you trudged home after the alley mishap, sobriety was hitting you, hard, and so was the throbbing pain in your lip. You realized exactly what you had done with full force of guilt, now, and you were scared. Were you going to lose her, now? After all you had gone through, it would all be over, just like that?

But when you opened the door to your apartment, it was like karma slapping you, because you could see your wife on the couch, kissing someone else. A horrible burning rose into your stomach, and you could feel the blisters bursting on your skin, but you stalked forward and pulled the man off of her, yelled something, and the bastard ran, but she continued to lie on the couch, looking up at you and the ceiling mildly, and you could feel yourself crumble and get angry at the same time, a confusing emotion that caused you to shout at her and punch the coffee table, hearing it crack under the weight of your fist.

You know you shouldn't be angry, because it wasn't just her, it was you too, and you love her so much, so much – and your heart is creaking, straining against the duck tape you used to wrap it back together so careful from all the times you had already broken each other apart.

She sits up, pins up the hair that had just been falling around her shoulders, and you can see the milk skin now, exposed and you can't take it. You're yelling and desperate and she's as calm as she's ever been, looking at you with the same frozen eyes she had when you first met each other, and you decide in the heat of the moment that you _hate_ that beautiful color you've never seen anywhere but in her eyes. You trick yourself into thinking that you hate her as much as you love her, and suddenly it's easier to lash out and hurt her.

(But it still hurts you as much as it hurts her when your hand connects with milk-snow-colorless skin – if not more.)

. . .

It happened first when you were eighteen. You were leaving for college and took her out to say good-bye. For a long time, you both sat on a park bench, and you wondered if you were supposed to do something. She looked at you eventually, evenly, and said that she wanted you to have fun.

You told her that you would, and that you would miss her. She looked at you for a long time before turning to face forward again and look at the ground. The silence went on and on until you heard her mumble, "Me, too."

Smiling, you looked at her to see some pretty pink fly across her face like a sunset sky, and you stand up suddenly, ask if you can stay with her. She looks surprised and stares at you for a long time, until you grab her hands and pull her up with you, hugging her. Everything about her, you knew, was something you loved, even if you hated it sometimes. She was perfect (to you), and you loved her even though she was so awkward and unkind sometimes.

You two stayed together all day, holding hands and walking through the town, and you chatted with her about things that wouldn't really matter, in retrospect, but you could hear her voice ring clear and it was really all you needed.

Nighttime fell like someone slamming the curtains shut. You looked at the sky, confused, because you hadn't noticed the hours pass. It was time for you to go, and you looked at her for a long time, before she said that you could stay at her house: no one was home, so you could sleep on the couch, if you'd like. You read into the subtext, and how she squeezed your hand subtly tighter, and knew that she just didn't want you to leave because she was lonely.

Without a word, you both go back into the house, and after talking a bit more, watching some TV, you both retire because you know how tired she is. She changes into pants and a t-shirt for bed, and you borrow some of her father's pajamas, and build yourself a makeshift bed on the floor, right next to her.

Lying down, you can hear her ask, "What time are you leaving tomorrow?"

You look at the form on the bed, see the hair spilling all around her shoulders, and you can see the curve of her cheek, the hollow in her neck, and the slope of her shoulders, but you can't see her eyes or her mouth.

"Around noon," you say, because you're not exactly sure. She gives a strained nod, and you wish she could come with you. You do the next best thing and take her hand, hold it tightly from the floor.

After an hour or so, she turns and looks at you, squeezes your hand once and says very quietly, like the brush of silk over skin, "I love you."

You didn't know how to respond without ruining the moment, so you smiled. The moment left as soon as it had come and she turned away again, but she didn't let go of your hand all night. When you had to leave her in the morning, letting go felt like ripping your hand off. She flinched when you dropped your hands and instantly drew it to herself, hugging it, but she didn't wake. You pressed a kiss on her temple and leave silently, changing back into your own clothes and heading home.

Hours later, as you're waiting at the gate, your cell phone goes off. You see it's her, and you answer to silence. You both know there isn't really anything to say, because things could fall apart if one of you pushes too hard. You've always known that.

Instead, you stay on the phone in silence until you have to board the plane. Right before you hang up, you say, "I love you, too," and then snap shut the phone.

(You never found out, but on the other side of the phone, after she hung up, she hugged her knees and cried.)

. . .

When you found her on the couch with someone you didn't know, it almost broke the two of you apart. In fact, if probably would have if you hadn't been together so long. You two had been on and off since high school, fifteen, going steady since nineteen or twenty, and married at twenty-two. It hadn't even been a year of marriage, but you knew she loved you. You knew she wasn't the kind of person to say that stuff and not mean it.

A month passed before either of you did anything. You were living separately for the time being, and she didn't come out of her apartment much, if at all. You spent most of your time working out, when suddenly, she was at your door after about two months. The time apart had cooled your temper for the most part, and now you were just tired. You wanted this to be over, but the instant you saw her, something in your gut burned, just _burned_, and when you saw her pulling on a pair of gloves she only ever wore while training, you knew how this was going to be solved.

She looked up at you, eyes burning like you hadn't seen in years, and you accepted her challenge without even meaning to. You notice, also without meaning to, that the bruises you gave her from before have faded now, and the worst are only a sickly-pale-rottenmilk color. She does not look at you as you two walk together to the gym, nothing as you face each other and begin.

It's more like a dance than a brutal fight, but the pains her fists inflict are just as real as the feel of her skin under your knuckles. She glides, sliding her feet along the floor to dodge and attack, and you've always favored the brute force approach, as opposed to her style. But she catches you in the ribs, and you stumble back, slightly winded. You can't remember feeling so alive in a long time, and you think that _this_ is the only way you two will understand each other. Violence and fighting are the only ways you can express yourself, and normally, you would think this was sad. But you know that, when it comes to her, it's completely natural.

You catch her under the jaw, and her feet lift off the ground from the force, and she lands ungracefully, crumpling onto her back, and you crouch and then kneel in front of her, breathing harshly. You don't _want_ to fight anymore. It's over.

Mayu looks up at the ceiling blankly, lip bleeding from the punches, and when she bit her tongue. You ask her, "Why?" and your voice cracks, even though that's not the tone you had wanted to take. She looks at you and softens, but she does not answer.

"Don't you _get_ what you did wrong?"

And you realize just how complicated the woman you fell in love with is, because she answers, "No, actually. And it's all I've been thinking about. But I just don't get it."

You understand in that moment that you know nothing about her. She sits up and you're looking at her, and finally recognize that there were so many _problems_ that you never knew, because you were so busy being in love, you had forgotten how it works.

"My mother told me it was alright." Mayu says quietly. She's looking at the floor, and wipes her lip, looks at the back of her hand and the red smeared there, before continuing. "She used to bring home a lot of different men, so she would tell me I couldn't say anything to dad."

You were confused, "Did she not love him?"

She looks at you for a long time, and that iris and forget-me-not love child color of her eyes strikes you again, and you know instinctively that a color that beautiful can only be made with love. She answers, anyway.

"She does. But she likes attention." Mayu pauses. Licks her lips, and continues. "Dad isn't home a lot. So she gets attention other ways. 'It's okay'.. Maybe I grew up thinking that."

You notice she sounds robotic now, and you don't like it. Reaching out hesitantly, you touch her cheek and she looks up at you, with a flicker in her eyes, deep in them, and you say, "Then you learned wrong."

She smiles bitterly. "I know."

There is another silence, and in this one, you move your hand away. Her skin burned your fingers, even though her skin was cool.

"Can you teach me?"

Then you look at her again, and she is looking at you seriously. You say, "What?" and she repeats her question.

"It's not that easy, May." You tell her, but something in you is leaping, jumping and celebrating because there is some kind of hope for you now. Maybe you won't lose her, you think triumphantly, but outside, you are skeptical. You raise an eyebrow, and she continues to look at you for a long time.

You are testing her. For a long time, you almost feel as though she doesn't realize this, but suddenly she looks down and says, "I'm sorry."

It's like the first time you saw her smile all over again, the one that lit up the world and made it sparkle like glass reflecting the heavens. You can feel that thumping in your chest and keep a normal face, but take her hands and pull her forward, hug her gently, and tell her you'll get through this together. You tell her you love her and that you've missed her, because now that things are opening up again, it's all flooding out. She nods, and after a long time, begins to cry silently. She tries to wipe it away and to stop, but you take her hands gently and shake your head, tell her it's okay. She looks at you for a long time before closing her eyes and leaning her head on your shoulder.

She cries after hours of you waiting (or, maybe she cried _for _hours–or both), and it feels like you really _can_ learn from this. Lessons will begin in the morning, and you will both learn how to move on, open up, and trust each other. _It'll be fine_, you tell yourself, and you believe.

For now, however, she sleeps, and you carry her to the apartment the two of you shared before all this, which neither of you have touched in two months, stand in the doorway, see the slight layer of dust, and look around before stepping into the space and deciding to give it all one more chance. Just because you love her more than you (or anyone else) can ever understand.

. . .

. . .

. . .

_**Um. **Similar to Strange & Beautiful, I was really uncertain about publishing this piece. OTL U-uh ... It's, um. Just kind of a look at the relationship between Ryohei and one of my OCs, Mayu. Obviously._

_Theyre unique in that they're one of my first couples to really explore cheating on each other and abusive (although accidentally) relationships. I mean, as much as I love Ryohei, I do think that he's the kind of character who would never be able to _quite_ control his temper if he got into a fight with his spouse, especially one like Mayu, who's kind of a bitch. I mean, I know she is, and that's just what she's like. He'd be overwhelmingly sweet in most situations, as shown by one part up there, I believe, but his temper could possibly undo any relationship he got himself in to._

_Also, of course, there is YamamotoRyohei in this because I am a sucker for that pairing. It's just really hot._

_And for the people who couldn't guess, most people are referred to by nicknames, even if that's not how Ryohei usually calls them. Shrimpy is obviously Tsuna. And... that's all I can think of right now._

_Anyways, I'm not really looking for opinions on Mayu or whatever, so just ... I hope you enjoyed reading? IDK I'm really nervous about this LOL. ;;;;;_

_love,_

_manrii.  
_


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